Remember Allen's post about Independent contractors well, it may be just war, but could sending in mercenaries be the solution to Darfur? Specifically could/should the Save Darfur folk scrounge up donations to hire these guys to stop the genocide? I don't know, something needs to be done, and no one is doing anything... All those comic books I read as a child are telling me vigilanteismis the only way to get things done...
Anyway, just a thought.
Peace,
Chris
Monday, March 19, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Short Story Sunday: The Valley of the Kolpo
The valley of the Trickster echoed metal and motion in the early dawn. Greece’s sun, the luscious hand of morning, painted the clouds and the sky, and its fingers lay hold of the valley’s wall.
Below House Thirio was on the move. Met pissed on camp fires, phalanx lined themselves up before their leaders. Their shields, touched too now by the rising rays, rang out bronze light. The Bear banners were raised; the javelineers took their place in the rear.
Not too far off Blep, a Thirio runner, came back toward the camp by way of the shadowy side of the great Trickster corridor.
His Lord would laud him for the information he had gathered whilst spying on the Pouli camp, Vulture banners tattered, men tired. Easy prey for the Thirio legions. Bleop thought of the old oracle, “The news bearer is beaten or blessed,” and ran faster still, to his reward.
And then, by some divine mischance, his foot touched an unstable rock, his leg twisted right, his body left, and he fell. His head hit the valley wall, and he went down. He lay there a moment, flat on his back. He struggled to get up, but then he saw it.
Above him, blotting out the sky, was the shadow of a vulture against the rising sun. It was magnificent, a celestial omen. It frightened him. He tried to scramble away, and managed to get up.
So he ran all the faster, back toward his camp. He came to the first legions, beginning their march to their eternal foes. And he shouted to them, “I have seen the Vulture upon the sky. He overcovers everything! He is writ large upon the world. He overcomes all the beasts of the ground.”
The men became ill at ease hearing this. A few faltered as the sun rose high above them and Blep continued to speak. Coba, their captain, shouted at the runner, “Be quiet you.”
But he did not. Blep continued to speak about what he had seen. So Coba, seeing that Blep would not quit speaking, unsheathed his sword and severed Blep’s head. And then he looked at his men, with anger, and said, “Go forward you dogs. Do not listen to the madman.”
So the men went forward and soon met with the Pouli, with their shreaded banners, their sapped strength, breath heaving deeply through heavy armor. Yet, the Thirio, were repulsed. Soon Coba was cut down. After this the Thirio became cautious, and soon the Pouli took the offensive. They scattered the Coba, and the front line of the giant Thirion army collapsed; it fell in on itself. The retreat turned into a stampede, and those multitude of Javelineers were crushed, and the mighty host overthrew itself. And there was a great slaughtering of men that day.
Receive as they give
Random chance
Perception
And above it all Kolpo watched and turned to three of his sons. “Sons,” he said.
“Yes papa Kolpo?” they asked.
“What does this tell you of fate?”
“We receive as we give,” said the eldest.
“Yes,” Kolpo agreed.
“Life is dictated by random chance,” said the second son.
“Yes.”
“Our perceptions change reality,” said the third.
“Yes,” Kolpo agreed, satisfied at the wisdom his sons had gained.
“And also due to a child flying a kite,” said Kolpo’s fourth son, arriving sheepishly holding the strings of his kite.
Below House Thirio was on the move. Met pissed on camp fires, phalanx lined themselves up before their leaders. Their shields, touched too now by the rising rays, rang out bronze light. The Bear banners were raised; the javelineers took their place in the rear.
Not too far off Blep, a Thirio runner, came back toward the camp by way of the shadowy side of the great Trickster corridor.
His Lord would laud him for the information he had gathered whilst spying on the Pouli camp, Vulture banners tattered, men tired. Easy prey for the Thirio legions. Bleop thought of the old oracle, “The news bearer is beaten or blessed,” and ran faster still, to his reward.
And then, by some divine mischance, his foot touched an unstable rock, his leg twisted right, his body left, and he fell. His head hit the valley wall, and he went down. He lay there a moment, flat on his back. He struggled to get up, but then he saw it.
Above him, blotting out the sky, was the shadow of a vulture against the rising sun. It was magnificent, a celestial omen. It frightened him. He tried to scramble away, and managed to get up.
So he ran all the faster, back toward his camp. He came to the first legions, beginning their march to their eternal foes. And he shouted to them, “I have seen the Vulture upon the sky. He overcovers everything! He is writ large upon the world. He overcomes all the beasts of the ground.”
The men became ill at ease hearing this. A few faltered as the sun rose high above them and Blep continued to speak. Coba, their captain, shouted at the runner, “Be quiet you.”
But he did not. Blep continued to speak about what he had seen. So Coba, seeing that Blep would not quit speaking, unsheathed his sword and severed Blep’s head. And then he looked at his men, with anger, and said, “Go forward you dogs. Do not listen to the madman.”
So the men went forward and soon met with the Pouli, with their shreaded banners, their sapped strength, breath heaving deeply through heavy armor. Yet, the Thirio, were repulsed. Soon Coba was cut down. After this the Thirio became cautious, and soon the Pouli took the offensive. They scattered the Coba, and the front line of the giant Thirion army collapsed; it fell in on itself. The retreat turned into a stampede, and those multitude of Javelineers were crushed, and the mighty host overthrew itself. And there was a great slaughtering of men that day.
Receive as they give
Random chance
Perception
And above it all Kolpo watched and turned to three of his sons. “Sons,” he said.
“Yes papa Kolpo?” they asked.
“What does this tell you of fate?”
“We receive as we give,” said the eldest.
“Yes,” Kolpo agreed.
“Life is dictated by random chance,” said the second son.
“Yes.”
“Our perceptions change reality,” said the third.
“Yes,” Kolpo agreed, satisfied at the wisdom his sons had gained.
“And also due to a child flying a kite,” said Kolpo’s fourth son, arriving sheepishly holding the strings of his kite.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Does this work as a pitch?
So Richardson's approach is a common man with an uncommon resume'. Will it work? I would like to think so, sort of Carter-like.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Deep Thought Thursday: "A liberal man"
First off sorry about not posting a DTT last Thursday. Right now I'm trying to construct a "theology of Proverbs" which is proving harder than squeezing blood out of turnips.
So my Deep Thought Thursday is actually a quote from Proverbs.
"A liberal man will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered." (11:25)
To recieve one must give, to live one must die... you know the drill. The counter-intuitive is correct. If one grasps at something one squashes it, if one frees what he loves he shall have it forever.
Now I have to go back to squeezing my turnips.
Peace,
Chris
So my Deep Thought Thursday is actually a quote from Proverbs.
"A liberal man will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered." (11:25)
To recieve one must give, to live one must die... you know the drill. The counter-intuitive is correct. If one grasps at something one squashes it, if one frees what he loves he shall have it forever.
Now I have to go back to squeezing my turnips.
Peace,
Chris
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Short Story Sunday: Myths continue
Sevol and Osserin made a happy couple thought B’lf, draining his cup. The two of them smelled fresh, they smelled of spring. He reached out and held Sylyn’s hand. She took his hand and squeezed it. Her hair had turned white in the years, her breasts sagged some, but her touch was still the same. B’lf’s own brown hair now gleamed grey in the torchlight. Perhaps silver, as silver as the coin that hung from his neck.
He lifted up his black goblet bedecked with rubies and a serf refilled it. He stood, letting go of his wife’s hand and pushed back his weighty bone chair.
“Sevol,” he said, his voice carrying less than it once had, “Take my daughter to your bed. Enjoy the prosperity of my house. You, you are now Lord of Svalbard. My men and ships and name itself are now yours.”
And with that he pulled off the talisman from around his neck, breaking the light steel chain, and threw it to his son-in-law. It landed at Sevol’s feet.
The young man reluctantly kneeled to pick up the coin, the hilt of his war-axe clanked upon the wooden floor.
“B’lf, son of Clarin, son of Modi, son of Thor, son of Odin I shall follow in your line, a gate against the Ragnarok, a defender of the Edge of the World, and will bring the wealth of every coast to your daughter’s feet.”
“Very good. Go, make sons to man the boats and ride the seas.”
With that the buzz of the feast returned and his daughter left to loose her maidenhood. And with that Gripsbee, a scout barely 12, came into the chamber, a blast of ice entering in with him and making the torch light flicker.
“There is a man at the gates who demands enterence and requests an audience with you my Lord.” The boy said and added, “he… he wears a dark cloak.”
“A dark cloak.” B’lf repeated.
-
There at his feet was the monster known as Grendel, stabbed through nearly a dozen times. B’lf, once disarmed by the giant thing, had brought it down with a rock. He had bashed it against the thing’s head repeatedly while it tore, with furry claw-hands, at the great warrior’s face.
Grendel had dented B’lf’s breastplate inwards so badly that it was impossible for him to catch is breath. He gasped and wheezed and as the world blackened reached underneath his arm and undid the armor. It fell with a clank to the ice floor.
He looked around, and saw his sword. It was bent and the tip chipped from battle. He walked to it, knelt down, and picked it up.
“B’lf, son of Odin,” said a voice shallow and rasping.
He whirled around, sword shaking in his shattered and outstretched hand. It was not Grendel who spoke, but a man cloaked in darkness.
The warrior knelt before the figure.
“You have defeated my son.”
“Loki?”
The figure nodded and walked over to Grendel. His hand entered the beast’s orange-grey flesh and pulled out a coin.
“Here. Your reward,” he said, throwing the coin to B’lf. It landed on the ice and rolled a ways, leaving a trail of the monster’s blood on the blue-white ice as it went.
“Good luck and long life to he who wears this,” Loki said, and walked into a shadow and was gone.
He lifted up his black goblet bedecked with rubies and a serf refilled it. He stood, letting go of his wife’s hand and pushed back his weighty bone chair.
“Sevol,” he said, his voice carrying less than it once had, “Take my daughter to your bed. Enjoy the prosperity of my house. You, you are now Lord of Svalbard. My men and ships and name itself are now yours.”
And with that he pulled off the talisman from around his neck, breaking the light steel chain, and threw it to his son-in-law. It landed at Sevol’s feet.
The young man reluctantly kneeled to pick up the coin, the hilt of his war-axe clanked upon the wooden floor.
“B’lf, son of Clarin, son of Modi, son of Thor, son of Odin I shall follow in your line, a gate against the Ragnarok, a defender of the Edge of the World, and will bring the wealth of every coast to your daughter’s feet.”
“Very good. Go, make sons to man the boats and ride the seas.”
With that the buzz of the feast returned and his daughter left to loose her maidenhood. And with that Gripsbee, a scout barely 12, came into the chamber, a blast of ice entering in with him and making the torch light flicker.
“There is a man at the gates who demands enterence and requests an audience with you my Lord.” The boy said and added, “he… he wears a dark cloak.”
“A dark cloak.” B’lf repeated.
-
There at his feet was the monster known as Grendel, stabbed through nearly a dozen times. B’lf, once disarmed by the giant thing, had brought it down with a rock. He had bashed it against the thing’s head repeatedly while it tore, with furry claw-hands, at the great warrior’s face.
Grendel had dented B’lf’s breastplate inwards so badly that it was impossible for him to catch is breath. He gasped and wheezed and as the world blackened reached underneath his arm and undid the armor. It fell with a clank to the ice floor.
He looked around, and saw his sword. It was bent and the tip chipped from battle. He walked to it, knelt down, and picked it up.
“B’lf, son of Odin,” said a voice shallow and rasping.
He whirled around, sword shaking in his shattered and outstretched hand. It was not Grendel who spoke, but a man cloaked in darkness.
The warrior knelt before the figure.
“You have defeated my son.”
“Loki?”
The figure nodded and walked over to Grendel. His hand entered the beast’s orange-grey flesh and pulled out a coin.
“Here. Your reward,” he said, throwing the coin to B’lf. It landed on the ice and rolled a ways, leaving a trail of the monster’s blood on the blue-white ice as it went.
“Good luck and long life to he who wears this,” Loki said, and walked into a shadow and was gone.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Short Story Sunday: That Holy City
Graft Angelrott dreamed of the end of history. Not because he wanted to, not because he believed in it, but because he had to. It was the only way he could make sense of it all, the only way he could do what he did.
He outstretched his wings, white and radiant, and leapt from the parapet. He enjoyed the feeling of the wind lifting up his wings, kissing his feathers, and touching the flesh beneath. He began his patrol of the City of God’s parameter. He kept his eyes focused on his left flank. The Land of Abomination was vast and waste, not trees, no vegetation at all really, some thorns and briar patches, but that was the extent of it. He couldn’t see any Thirds out there, but you never know, he’d been told some Thirds had taken pot-shots at Golden-wing near the South Tower not two days before. Though a massive search of the area had been conducted the enemy was never found.
He fancied a peek at the Solomonic Court to his right as he neared the East Tower. Mortals robed in white walked about, oblivious to the Warrior above. They held hands, ate grapes, juggled, jogged on the golden roads, a few of the pious held beads and prayed. The king’s harem tittered away, unmindful of the Eunuchs watching over them.
Graft chuckled to himself, though it wasn’t exactly a pleasant sort of chuckle.
He landed at the East Tower and checked in, swiping his identity card in the machine. When the light flashed green he took to the air again.
He flew on; a little more wary the farther south he got. The Weere-woods that lay far outside the walls spooked even him. Only the Arch brigade dared enter them. Most said the Archs had went native, that they were practically demons, no one said this to their four dragon-like faces of course. No looking into the 8 burning sapphire eyes of an Arch even the bravest lost their courage. One of Graft’s pub-mates, Zane Ladyfeather, had been on patrol with the Archs once. He’d came back a much more solemn being.
When Graft stopped at the South Tower he took a long draught of water from his canteen. He looked over the wall. The Temple was grand; there were marble statues everywhere. Paul, Peter, even Jesus, were depicted in fine form. Candles burnt at their feet, rose pedals lay there too.
He swiped his card through the machine and waited. It took some time; one of the other sentries was late in arriving at one of the other posts. He took another swig from his canteen, then replaced it in the mesh pouch at his hip. The positive green light came on. He could continue.
After a short time the beginnings of The Hole came into view. The fallen Western Tower lay long out into The Land of Abomination, like a beached whale, crumbled and prostrate. The once perfect wall had been patched up as best the immortals could, but the Third’s bomb had been… devastating. Everything had changed. The refugees from beyond the wall who had used to come to the beggars corner had been turned away. Yet they came back. Eventually Solomon had ordered the Warrior-Saints to ride out and remove them so the repairs could be finished.
He landed at the stubby Western Outpost and again slid his ID card through and got a green light to continue.
Graft hated the Outpost. All except the Archs, with their massive wingspan, had to take a running jump to get airborne. So he took his bi-daily daring leap off the Outpost and fell toward the ground. His wings strained to push him up as he came closer still to the Abominable ground.
And then he was aloft again. He looked off to the northwest. Nothing. No trains of humble pilgrims or refugees. A good thing too, Graft realized, overcoming his own sentimentality. Pilgrims and refugees had become Thirds and he would have to shoot them on sight.
I miss the old days, he thought as he neared the Northern Tower.
He outstretched his wings, white and radiant, and leapt from the parapet. He enjoyed the feeling of the wind lifting up his wings, kissing his feathers, and touching the flesh beneath. He began his patrol of the City of God’s parameter. He kept his eyes focused on his left flank. The Land of Abomination was vast and waste, not trees, no vegetation at all really, some thorns and briar patches, but that was the extent of it. He couldn’t see any Thirds out there, but you never know, he’d been told some Thirds had taken pot-shots at Golden-wing near the South Tower not two days before. Though a massive search of the area had been conducted the enemy was never found.
He fancied a peek at the Solomonic Court to his right as he neared the East Tower. Mortals robed in white walked about, oblivious to the Warrior above. They held hands, ate grapes, juggled, jogged on the golden roads, a few of the pious held beads and prayed. The king’s harem tittered away, unmindful of the Eunuchs watching over them.
Graft chuckled to himself, though it wasn’t exactly a pleasant sort of chuckle.
He landed at the East Tower and checked in, swiping his identity card in the machine. When the light flashed green he took to the air again.
He flew on; a little more wary the farther south he got. The Weere-woods that lay far outside the walls spooked even him. Only the Arch brigade dared enter them. Most said the Archs had went native, that they were practically demons, no one said this to their four dragon-like faces of course. No looking into the 8 burning sapphire eyes of an Arch even the bravest lost their courage. One of Graft’s pub-mates, Zane Ladyfeather, had been on patrol with the Archs once. He’d came back a much more solemn being.
When Graft stopped at the South Tower he took a long draught of water from his canteen. He looked over the wall. The Temple was grand; there were marble statues everywhere. Paul, Peter, even Jesus, were depicted in fine form. Candles burnt at their feet, rose pedals lay there too.
He swiped his card through the machine and waited. It took some time; one of the other sentries was late in arriving at one of the other posts. He took another swig from his canteen, then replaced it in the mesh pouch at his hip. The positive green light came on. He could continue.
After a short time the beginnings of The Hole came into view. The fallen Western Tower lay long out into The Land of Abomination, like a beached whale, crumbled and prostrate. The once perfect wall had been patched up as best the immortals could, but the Third’s bomb had been… devastating. Everything had changed. The refugees from beyond the wall who had used to come to the beggars corner had been turned away. Yet they came back. Eventually Solomon had ordered the Warrior-Saints to ride out and remove them so the repairs could be finished.
He landed at the stubby Western Outpost and again slid his ID card through and got a green light to continue.
Graft hated the Outpost. All except the Archs, with their massive wingspan, had to take a running jump to get airborne. So he took his bi-daily daring leap off the Outpost and fell toward the ground. His wings strained to push him up as he came closer still to the Abominable ground.
And then he was aloft again. He looked off to the northwest. Nothing. No trains of humble pilgrims or refugees. A good thing too, Graft realized, overcoming his own sentimentality. Pilgrims and refugees had become Thirds and he would have to shoot them on sight.
I miss the old days, he thought as he neared the Northern Tower.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
The Fall of Modernity
So we are, as our own government tells us, in a war of civilizations—a national testing in which we will emerge triumphant, the true beacon and best hope of humankind or else find ourselves destroyed, the detritus of history. This is not simply inflated rhetoric. It is avowed American policy.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Deep Thought Friday: Scholarship is stating the obvious
Scholarship consists of knowing enough that when you state the obvious you state something profound.
Peace,
Chris
Peace,
Chris
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Short Story Sund... er... Monday: Mt. Akedot
So... on the plus side I finished the first chapter of my dissertation... on the negative side I took Sunday completely off, walked to Grandchester, participated in an extra evening worship, and saw "An Inconvenient Truth" at Christ College Theater.
Fear not though, I've written a short story today.
Mt. Akedot
They came from the boy’s cabin, Dirk, Phillip, and Anthony. Dirk first, Phillip and Anthony prodding him to go up to the girl’s cabin.
“Emily,” he said, looking into the cabin.
“Yeah?” she replied.
“Let’s go up the big hill tonight.”
“Yeah,” she said, and they agreed on the time and the place.
That night, when the lights were out, Emily got up, with Harriet, her bunkmate, and they went out of the cabin, through the woods, and met the three boys at a campfire.
“Hey,” she said.
“Yeah?” he replied, looking up, and smiling at her. He looked so grown-up to her.
“Let’s go,” he said, getting up from the fire.
“Yeah, let’s,” she agreed.
They went up through the forest, the five of them.
After three hours Harriet said, “Let’s go back, otherwise Tina will catch us out after lights out.”
Phillip looked at his grown-up looking pocket watch. Emily looked up at the hill. It was close.
“I want to go up the hill,” she said.
“Yeah,” Dirk agreed.
So they parted ways. The three went back, the two up.
As they went up the hill became steep. Emily started to fall down.
“Emily,” Dirk said, catching her by the hand.
“Dirk,” she said, righting herself.
And they went up together, holding hands.
“Emily.”
“Yeah?”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“I want to be an architect. How about you?”
“A construction worker, like my dad.”
They continued up, holding hands. Look! They reached the top of the hill. To their left the first squinting lines of sunlight were shining up at them. To their right the moon, luminescent and tranquil, was descending. The whole sparse Wyoming landscape was radiating with the power of the greater and the lesser light.
Fear not though, I've written a short story today.
Mt. Akedot
They came from the boy’s cabin, Dirk, Phillip, and Anthony. Dirk first, Phillip and Anthony prodding him to go up to the girl’s cabin.
“Emily,” he said, looking into the cabin.
“Yeah?” she replied.
“Let’s go up the big hill tonight.”
“Yeah,” she said, and they agreed on the time and the place.
That night, when the lights were out, Emily got up, with Harriet, her bunkmate, and they went out of the cabin, through the woods, and met the three boys at a campfire.
“Hey,” she said.
“Yeah?” he replied, looking up, and smiling at her. He looked so grown-up to her.
“Let’s go,” he said, getting up from the fire.
“Yeah, let’s,” she agreed.
They went up through the forest, the five of them.
After three hours Harriet said, “Let’s go back, otherwise Tina will catch us out after lights out.”
Phillip looked at his grown-up looking pocket watch. Emily looked up at the hill. It was close.
“I want to go up the hill,” she said.
“Yeah,” Dirk agreed.
So they parted ways. The three went back, the two up.
As they went up the hill became steep. Emily started to fall down.
“Emily,” Dirk said, catching her by the hand.
“Dirk,” she said, righting herself.
And they went up together, holding hands.
“Emily.”
“Yeah?”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“I want to be an architect. How about you?”
“A construction worker, like my dad.”
They continued up, holding hands. Look! They reached the top of the hill. To their left the first squinting lines of sunlight were shining up at them. To their right the moon, luminescent and tranquil, was descending. The whole sparse Wyoming landscape was radiating with the power of the greater and the lesser light.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Eli Wiesel was attacked!
This seems utterly bizzare to me.
In other news I'm going to Israel for Easter and I've started the first chapter of my disertation on Genesis 22. It's intense!
Peace,
Chris
In other news I'm going to Israel for Easter and I've started the first chapter of my disertation on Genesis 22. It's intense!
Peace,
Chris
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Short Story Sunday:The Short but good life of Brinksly Bree
The Short but good life of Brinksly Bree
They say that in a blind world the one eyed man is king. What did the men of the past know? Nothing I say. Take for example Brinksly Bree. He was a halfling, the son of a zealot family opposed to Framing. Even after he was taken away from his family he couldn’t be integrated into the Framework. He had reacted badly to the first electronic eye transplant, so they never removed the other.
“Morning Brinksly,” said his Framewife one day. She was perfect, as Framewives are, every feature calculated to elicit joy in her husband.
“Morning hon,” he replied, half of him kissed her, half of him saw no one in the bed next to him, only his small/large flat/house.
“Don’t think like that,” she said, reacting to his brain wave pattern, “simle,” she said, her own pouty lips widened into an even greater smile, her electronically white teeth shown and sparkled in his right eye. She brushed the side of his face with her hand, he could feel it but not see it/and see it.
“I’ve made you your favorite, waffles with maple syrup and strawberries,” she said, serving him his breakfast in bed. His Framesuit pumped recovered food mush into his mouth. It tasted wonderful, the strawberries were ripe and juicy.
He got up and went out the door, his Framewife kissed him on the way out.
He passed by other people. They were all Fullings, their blind-twitching-red eyes locked onto him. They were all pasty and withered creatures, unexercised and malnourished./ They were all beautiful, with sparkling eyes and powerful, graceful, bodies. They looked little lower than angels.
The sky was dark, the sun blotted out with smog, everything was concrete./The sky was blue, as blue as the bluest ocean. Birds, pretty and colorful, floated along on the breeze, landing on the giant green trees.
This was the life of a halfling. This was the short but good life of Brinksly Bree
They say that in a blind world the one eyed man is king. What did the men of the past know? Nothing I say. Take for example Brinksly Bree. He was a halfling, the son of a zealot family opposed to Framing. Even after he was taken away from his family he couldn’t be integrated into the Framework. He had reacted badly to the first electronic eye transplant, so they never removed the other.
“Morning Brinksly,” said his Framewife one day. She was perfect, as Framewives are, every feature calculated to elicit joy in her husband.
“Morning hon,” he replied, half of him kissed her, half of him saw no one in the bed next to him, only his small/large flat/house.
“Don’t think like that,” she said, reacting to his brain wave pattern, “simle,” she said, her own pouty lips widened into an even greater smile, her electronically white teeth shown and sparkled in his right eye. She brushed the side of his face with her hand, he could feel it but not see it/and see it.
“I’ve made you your favorite, waffles with maple syrup and strawberries,” she said, serving him his breakfast in bed. His Framesuit pumped recovered food mush into his mouth. It tasted wonderful, the strawberries were ripe and juicy.
He got up and went out the door, his Framewife kissed him on the way out.
He passed by other people. They were all Fullings, their blind-twitching-red eyes locked onto him. They were all pasty and withered creatures, unexercised and malnourished./ They were all beautiful, with sparkling eyes and powerful, graceful, bodies. They looked little lower than angels.
The sky was dark, the sun blotted out with smog, everything was concrete./The sky was blue, as blue as the bluest ocean. Birds, pretty and colorful, floated along on the breeze, landing on the giant green trees.
This was the life of a halfling. This was the short but good life of Brinksly Bree
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